Once More Unto The Breach
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: Had it all been a dream? Had I never been in my office at all? Was Sherlock Holmes really alive after all? A slight AU of "The Empty House"


I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I entered into some sort of trance. When I next was aware of myself I was sitting on a bench in a park watching some children playing with no idea as to how I'd arrived there. Had it all been a dream? Had I never been in my office at all? Was Sherlock Holmes really alive after all?

I shook my head, trying to maintain some form of composure whilst still in public. One of the children stopped and stared at me for a moment, smiling and waving his hand enthusiastically. "Don't worry," he appeared to be saying. "It's a beautiful day and nothing could possibly go ill on a day like this one."

It had been raining earlier, I remembered. I noted the fading dampness of my shoes and ring of wetness around the hem of my trousers. By those facts alone, and the fact that the ground was still shining with moisture, I deduced that had to have been sitting there for at least fifteen minutes. I wondered how many people I must have frightened. Had I been behaving normally or had I been staring off into space like a madman. Perhaps someone had sent for a doctor, I thought. That possibility was quickly deemed unlikely; someone would have doubtless remained with me and, judging by a quick survey of the ground around me, it appeared no one had been here in the past several minutes save for myself and...

Sherlock Holmes had once said to me that he could not pick out my footprints out of all the footprints in the world but I knew his. I knew the length of his stride, I knew the size of his feet, I knew the shoes he favoured and I knew that he had been in disguise when he'd sat next to me; probably dressed as that old bookseller. I could see the traces of hair from the fake beard and the footprints were of those Holmes when he pretended to limp. I was the only man he'd ever seen limp at close proximity so his act slowly began to resemble my own gait.

So he'd been here, and he'd left me here. Had I said something to him? Yes the man certainly had a great deal of explaining to do but I hoped I hadn't shouted at him. The man was moving about in disguise which meant his life was clearly on the line, and he'd risked it to chase after me.

I sat there and thought for several moments. What exactly had happened? All I managed to recall was leaving the house and hailing a cab. As I investigated the park more closely I realised that it was the park down the street from the cemetery where my wife was buried. It was also the place of a small memorial that Mycroft and I had erected after I had returned from the continent. Had I headed there? Again I found myself applying Holmes's methods. I saw that my knees were dirty and my finger nails had grass and dirt caked under them and…was that blood?

One hand was cleaner than the other, there were threads of a handkerchief that was not mine caught under the nails and I found another memory returned to me: this one of Holmes, in disguise, tenderly clearing up my hand and whispering to me. The only thing I can remember my friend saying is "Camden House." It was quickly followed by an apologetic squeeze on my shoulder and a quick departure.

He thought I was furious at him. My God he thought I despised him. I could never despise him no matter how he acted. He would never do this without a good reason; I had faith in that if nothing else. Holmes was not an intentionally malicious man.

Camden House was the empty house across from 221B Baker Street. I reached into my pocket to determine if I had sufficient fare for a cab only to find a handful of sovereigns which I was positive had not been there before. I smiled, feeling a touch of tears as I remembered Holmes's barely present optimism in the face of the worst. He always gave some logical reason for it, he would probably claim that he knew all along that I'd come along later, but I knew, just as he knew, that it was a fool's hope in the face of what was before him. I was thrilled beyond thought or words that the man was able to act on those hopes once more.

I hailed a cab and hopped in, urging the driver to travel with all haste. No doubt Holmes would not want me to be observed so I had the driver stop at a discrete distance from my actual destination. If Baker Street was being watched it would do no good if I were spotted. I had done my best to avoid the area for the past few years so it would be a telling thing indeed if I were to appear in the neighbourhood.

Soon enough Camden House appeared before me, looking all the world like a palace of great riches to me instead of the dilapidated pile that it was. I stepped quietly in through what had to have once been the servant's entry and ascended the staircase. One of steps creaked ominously and I hesitated, wishing that I had gone back to Kensington and fetched my service revolver before coming. When I finally reached the top I entered the first room before me. I pushed the door open a touch and then slipped inside, letting it fall partially closed behind me, creaking all the while as badly as the staircase had. The window gave me a splendid view of our old rooms and a figure that appeared to be Holmes loomed at the window. I must have misheard, I decided, and turned around only to hear a harshly whispered "Watson!" from behind me.

I turned my head and there, crouched in the shadows of another adjoining room was Sherlock Holmes. During the time that passed in order for me to realise that it was the genuine article before me and a decoy at the window I managed to get a good look at him. He was much thinner and paler than I remembered him and he truly looked like the ghost I must have at first believed him to be. In the old days I would have expected a harsh gesture to join him following my realisation but instead he stood there, now looking like a child caught spying on his parents, and held out his hand.

There were a thousand apologies in that gesture, probably to the match the thousand apologies I could now hear ringing in my brain. They were simply whispers in the wind to me and I very much wanted to hear them properly. I continued to stare at him and he whispered them all again, all of them matching the dulcet tones I'd heard partially through my stupor.

In the old days I would have had to force the issue. In the old days I might never have received one apology let alone two identical ones. His time away had not been gentle to him, that much was visible from the fit of his clothes to the vacancy in his eyes. I was filled with the desire to do something to invigorate him again, something to make him a part of the world of the living again.

When I took his hand it was as though I'd literally breathed new life into him. His eyes brightened and his grip was as tight as a vice. Not a spirit in the least. He pulled me back into his world as much as I pulled him back into mine. There was more to tell, his eyes promised as much as my own must have demanded it. I would receive it all and it would be the truth, and for the first time I had no doubts about that.

"Here," he whispered. Something cold and familiar was pressed into my hand: my service revolver. "Just in case," was all the explanation he offered. For the time being, I knew.

I didn't know what we were waiting for. I didn't know who we were waiting for. I didn't know why there was a Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street and a Sherlock Holmes in Camden House and it all could not have mattered less to me in that moment. The story would be told later for now all that mattered was that Holmes was here, that I was here, and that the game was afoot once again.


End file.
